Page 17 of Unravelled

"Nothing clear," she admitted. "Just… impressions. A feeling, the weight of a hand that isn’t there. Sometimes I hear voices, but I can’t make out the words... and then it’s gone.”

Tharion yanked his horse to a stop. Mira had to pull hard to stop with him, her mare nickering in protest. The road fell silent as the convoy progresses slowly around them. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

He turned to face her fully. His gaze locked on hers, searching.She continued, “But I dream sometimes,”the words barely more than a breath. "And in the dream it feels real. But when I wake up… it slips away. I try to hold on, but it’s like, like trying to catch smoke."

His stare sharpened. Razor-edged. Careful. “And how do you feel afterwards?”

She hesitated. “Disoriented. Sometimes confused about where I am.” A shiver crawled down her spine. “Tharion,” she murmured, unsettled now. “Do you dream of me too?”

His reaction was slight. So slight, she might have missed it if she wasn't watching him. A flinch. A flicker of something in his eyes, gone too fast. Mira’s breath came fast, uneven. A knot of unease tightened in her chest. "Tharion…?"

A sharp whistle cut through the air, fast. Deadly.

Tharion grunted. An arrow jutted from his shoulder, buried deep in the muscle.

He jerked sideways in the saddle. Sliding down, he reached out and dragged Mira down between the horses.

They hit the dirt hard. Her breath knocked from her chest. He threw himself over her, his body a shield as chaos erupted, shouts, boots pounding, the crack of panic splitting the air.

The whinny of horses, the heavy sound of hooves striking the dirt as figures emerged. Kharadorians.

They emerged from the trees, from the road behind them.

Mira looked around as the horses bolted.

Tharion lay over her breathing in quick gasps, gritted his teeth against the pain.

She scrambled out from underneath him and helped him behind the nearest cover, the cart.

The same one he'd almost kissed her against.

Blood seeped from the wound, darkening the fabric of his sleeve.

Without hesitation, Mira gripped the arrow and snapped the shaft cleanly near the wound.

Tharion let out a raw cry of pain, his body tensing beneath her hands.

Mira’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her hands, covered with Tharion’s blood.

She twisted to see their men rush toward the cart, fumbling at the latches.

They were breaking it open. For weapons. For protection.

She and Tharion exchanged a glance. They both knew. The guard yanked open the chest. Empty. The moment stretched, then shattered as fresh panic swept through the group like wildfire.

Hooves pounded against the earth. Ren’s horse tore past in a blur of motion, mud spraying as he held the reins, circling the group. "Fight with your swords! We outnumber them!" His voice was a blade, sharp and commanding.

He barely glanced at her. "Tharion! Her carriage!" Then he was gone, vanishing into the chaos of ambush.

Mira’s pulse hammered against her ribs. Her breath came too fast, her hands shaking. She had nothing, no weapon, no armor.A firm grip closed around her arm.

Tharion. Standing, his sword drawn, his face tight with pain. His hold was steady despite his wound. He didn’t speak, just pulled her with him, pushing forward, shielding her as they wove through the chaos.

Swords clashed. Soldiers fell. Somewhere, someone screamed. Mira stumbled, nearly slipping in the churned mud made from dust and blood beneath her feet. But Tharion kept her upright, his grip on her arm unyielding.

They moved in bursts, darting past the chaos, ducking beneath swinging blades, pressing through gaps before they could close. A Kharadorian reeled toward them, clutching his stomach where his leather armor had been split open, eyes wide with shock. Tharion shoved him aside and kept moving.

A sharp whistle. Tharion spun and pulled her to his chest. An arrow buried itself in the wood where she had been standing a heartbeat before, vibrating from the force of the shot.

Her breath caught in her throat. Tharion’s head snapped towards the shot, scanning the battlefield like a predator.

He let go and moved, slipping through the chaos like a shadow.

Mira barely registered what was happening before she spotted him closing in on the archer too late, hidden in the press of bodies, already reaching for another arrow.

Steel flashed. The archers body went stiff, then crumpled.

Tharion staggered as he stepped back, breath ragged.

The wound in his shoulder was still bleeding, the dark patch spreading down over his leather breastplate, but he didn’t stop.

He knelt, yanked the archer’s bow from their fingers, and turned.

Without hesitation, he tossed the weapon to Mira.

The quiver followed, slung from the dead man’s shoulder.

Did she know how to use this?

Her fingers tightened around the wood of the grip.

The weight was familiar. Her sharp eyes locked onto a Kharador dragging an underguard behind a burning cart.

He couldn't have been more than seventeen years old.

Without hesitation, she raised her bow and let an arrow fly. A sharp cry confirmed the hit.

She did.

???

The night hummed with stillness. A silver mist curled across the ground, rising in tendrils around Mira’s boots. Shadows pooled at the edges of the practice ring, swallowing the world beyond. The torchlight flickered once, dim and distant, painting everything in shades of bone and ash.

She exhaled. The air kissed her skin with an icy whisper, slipping beneath her clothes, raising goosebumps in delicate swirls along her arms. Her fingers curled tighter around the crossbow, the worn grip familiar against her palms. Ahead, the targets loomed like ghosts, faceless, unmoving, half-lost in the dark.

“You call this difficult?” she murmured, voice soft, almost amused. She could make this shot blindfolded.

A low hum stirred the silence behind her.

A sound like velvet over stone, familiar, indulgent.

“Is this too easy for you, Mira?” The rasp of his voice slid along her spine like smoke, curling warmly in her chest. She turned her head slightly, enough to catch the ghost of him in her periphery, his shape outlined in gray scale, all shadows and angles.

“Oh, absolutely,” she purred, every syllable dipped in heat.

He stepped closer, the world seeming to hush around them. A breath. A pause. “Try one-handed,” he murmured.

The words spilled against her ear like silk. His hand slid over hers gentle, coaxing, guiding. Down. To him. The moment stretched, suspended. Her fingers brushed heat beneath the fabric of his waistband.

His breath caught, sharp and quiet. A moan from his chest, low and rough, vibrated against her fingertips. He bowed forward, pressing his face to her shoulder, his arms encircling her waist like gravity itself.

“Am I distracting you?” he asked, voice a broken whisper of silk and smoke. It wasn’t the darkness that was the challenge tonight.

She smiled, lips parting in slow amusement. “Not at all.” She squeezed. “I’m just enjoying you.” She stroked him, slow and languid, her movements precise, like aiming. His body shuddered.

He clutched her tighter. “Mira…” he groaned, her name escaping like a secret. He moved his hips, rocking subtly into her hand, breath catching again. Her eyes stayed locked on the shadowed target ahead. A breath. A beat.

“I don’t think you have it in you,” he whispered.

She laughed. “The shot?” she said. A pause. He groaned, the sound rumbling from deep in his throat as her fingers tightened.

Her name slipped from his lips again, reverent. “Let’s make a wager,” he breathed. His voice was darker now, threaded with desire.

“If you miss…” His fingers traced slow, hypnotic circles against her hips. “I get to draw out every moan and curse from your lips. However,” he punctuating the word with a sharp thrust. “I.” Another. “Want.” Another.

“And if I make it?” He stilled, breath trembling. “Then I’m all yours,” he said, voice rough “and I’ll beg you” he said, voice rough, low. “On my kneesif that’s what you want"

She inhaled. He knew exactly what that would do to her. The image hit her before she could stop it. On his knees, looking up at her, his hands trailing slowly along her back, chin resting against her stomach. Waiting, wanting.

Her aim faltered. Just for a second. She blinked hard, breath catching, the crossbow’s weight suddenly more difficult to center.But she didn’t let it show. Focus snapped back into place like a drawn wire.

She lifted the crossbow. Her other hand still moving. And then, release. The arrow split the silence, a streak of silver in a world drained of color. It struck the target dead center, right through the heart. Silence fell again. Only their breathing remained, layered and uneven.

???

It wasn’t a crossbow but Mira barely noticed.

She scanned the battlefield, chaos churning around her.

Instinctively, her gaze swept the wreckage for Tharion.

A glimpse of his armor, his stance, anything.

But he was nowhere. Just bodies. Just fire.

Just noise. Soldiers clashed, metal rang against metal, and the acrid scent of smoke burned her nostrils.

She pivoted on instinct, losing two more arrows in rapid succession, one finding its target. Then she moved, darting through the fray, weaving between bodies and blades. Sparks flashed as Kharad weapons clashed around her, the heat of the burning wreckages licking at her skin .